Gary Glauber is a poet, fiction writer, teacher, and former music journalist.His works have received multiple Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominations. He champions the underdog to the melodic rhythms of obscure power pop. His collection, Small Consolations (Aldrich Press) is available through Amazon, as is a chapbook, Memory Marries Desire(Finishing Line Press).

Afternoon’s Anachronism

He is a man out of time,misplaced, misunderstood,mistaken for an employeeoffering service with a smile.After all, he wears a tie.To an average outsiderhe seems to inhabit the attitudeof necessary obeisance.But be fooled notby the cheerful demeanor,this clever guiseis effective camouflage.Lurking within, acid thoughtsdrip slowly in dark silence,burning awaylike conscience unleashed(the little id that could). Hidden yetis the greater iceberg,the clever counter-forcethat fuels arguments,sidles sideways betweenfancy diction & jumbled syntax,following frustrationon a serpentine path to nowhere.The surface shows insouciant smirk, an errant era, a wrong aisle,a misguided false identity,a stranger left contemplatinghow such blunders occur. He may not be what he seems,but right now, he’s no help at all.

Dialectic

Life’s daily terrors:invisible, inevitable,dangerous, unavoidable.

Like gravity…splendidly reliable,infinitely undeniable.

Life is a culling of fears.some grown out of,others grown into.

Faith accepts fear.When turned inside out,you are ready to begin.

Proceed with caution,wise in the knowledgethat only fools are fearless.

Process

Angry men like furious machinesstorm the aisles of this political gala,keen to influence the thinking of othersthrough argument of brute force.Disagree and be escorted outby a show of ignorant blustermasquerading as pride.Stubbornness distorted through patriotismturns ugly in a hurry,and the crowd mind never hesitatesto feed their borderline distrust,to challenge the status quoalongside folly as fear.

This is not an exchange of ideas,but a show of force and political bullying,the kind of strong-arm tactics of yore,when knuckles flew to keep theweak ones in line, those hoping to finda minority voice within the larger platform.It’s a game of numbers, of panderingand promises, longstanding traditionsthat have long since worn down.

The illusion of choice is winnowed down,Tuesday by Tuesday, state by state.Hit talking points, recite familiar refrains,and jingo all the way, guaranteeing anything.Don’t get bogged down in detail,polish and shine only last for so long.It’s a war of attrition,of subtraction as addition,where substance gone missingis par for the course. Convene and commiserate,for the contest aheaddoesn’t seem beneficial,whatever the outcome,whatever destiny’s fate.

The furious men like angry machinesbetray what we already know:the system is brokenand all the king’s menmay never repair it again.

Equinox

It was dismal winterbefore we met,embers holding onfor dear life,stirred into unexpectedpockets of warmth, excitement.Your body against mine,defying logic, railing againstsurrounding night.While others take flight,we remain, hard proofof what once was,treacherous path takenand wrestled into submission,measured silencesbreathing memoriesagainst the happy clamorof spring birdsong:lips as lessons,touch as best defense,love as means of survival.

Destiny

​He knew he was being taken down,it was only a matter of time and circumstance.He could run from it, hide away somewhere,but what the hell kind of life was that?His other choice - continue the mission,follow the fated course, regardlessof inevitable pain and bullets. There wasno going to the police – they knew and choseto look away – a smirk of a look that saidgood riddance to bad rubbish. For now,even the media had their fill, preferringdeaths over threats any day of the week.Oratory footage was a challenge, butan assassination melee was watchable news.And so legend had it he approached the podium,trusted prayer book close to his heart, andbegan to deliver his message of hope and unity.Those few present claim his words that afternoonresonated with the kind of clarity and focus thatonly a man at peace could deliver. There wasno extra drama, no desperation, only a senseof acceptance and understanding. When thatman in the front row stood up and raised his gun,there were audible gasps from those in the sparse crowd.In what seemed a frenetic yet slow motion pantomime,there were screams, people running, and ultimatelya legend of martyrdom born and built up slowly,to eventually pass down through the ages.

I enjoyed reading these poems. I found Dialectic a smart outline of perpetual contraries. Destiny offered a moving biography of any great martyr you can name. And Process gave a telling summary of Americans' disillusionment with the current major political contest in their nation. Well written, Mr. Glauber.